


Feel.

by sherlockianfangirl



Category: Divergent (Movies), Divergent - All Media Types, Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Divergent, Eric Coulter imagine, Eric Coulter x Reader, Eric x Reader, F/M, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 12:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11737170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockianfangirl/pseuds/sherlockianfangirl
Summary: It's been so long since Eric last loved someone.





	Feel.

Bare feet shuffling against cold tile. Water being poured into a glass. These delicate sounds aren't what wakes Eric up. 

What wakes Eric up is the abrupt lack of contact.

How is arms are suddenly encircling nothing more than stale air. How there's no longer the rough texture of hair brushing against his neck. How there's no skin grazing his, no breath tickling his neck.

Partially, it's his Dauntless training that insists he sleep lightly. But the majority of it, the greater whole, is just how it's been so damn long since he last felt something as simple as blind affection. Somebody caressing you, loving you, even just touching you in the right way. He had been deprived of it.

So when he finally got it, he grasped onto it with both hands, keep his eyes miles from closed as he just felt, felt her breath and her skin and her hair until sleep started flirting with his eyelids and he drifted away. 

It was bliss, a heaven, the ultimate enlightenment. Because for once this wasn't just a breezy fling or a casual one, two, three night stand. This was a living, breathing relationship that was wild and untamed and blunt. Christ, it was a rollercoaster of feel. It was the fire that his faction so relentlessly advocates: enigmatic, searing, and beautiful.

And so, although he is a Dauntless leader and his job permits him to sleep until any reasonable hour, he gets out of bed. Not for himself or his job, but for the fire, for this beautiful. He sleepily trudges through his apartment. his footsteps a heavy mimicking of hers.

And there she stands, hands resting on his kitchen counter, eyes attempting to stare through the grimy kitchen window above the sink. She's glorious, wonderful, the epitome of being jagged and rough and still possessing the title of masterpiece. 

She's a work of art.

Eric drags his finger over her shoulder, over the worn fabric of an old shirt of his. She tilts her head back ever so slightly, acknowledging him, but doesn't react beyond that.

Another reason for his attraction to her. The boys and girls he used to bring home before were kings and queens of misinterpretation. They were drowning in their own need, suffocating in their desire to be loved. Not unlike him, but there's only room for one like that in a relationship. 

Some contact meant too much to them, some contact didn't mean anything at all. Fingers brushing against each other while passing a gleaming flask of whiskey. A pair of lips being ravaged by his own. They never understood the way she does.

With her, he doesn't have to try. He doesn't have to figure out what and what not to do, he's not trapped in an endless maze of right and wrong. With her he's just Eric.

He wraps his arms around her, closing his eyes and breathing her in. She smells the way she always does: like his fabric softener and the Amity cherry trees she patrols as a job and that cheap citrusy bath soap that either smells too sour or too sweet on other girls but perfectly right on her.

She shifts, adjusts, molds herself against his body like two fitting pieces of a puzzle. Eric leans down just enough for his teeth to catch the tip of her ear, the taste of her skin teasing his rational thought. Still, as much as he might like to, he refrains from going any farther, not wanting to ruin this precious moment.

Her low hum of approval reverberates through her chest, sending chills of pleasure up Eric's spine. She puts a hand on his forearm, bare skin against skin.

One more thing: she doesn't disguise anything about her. She doesn't try to use leather and piercings and tattoo ink to become someone new like he did. She is what she is. Albeit bruised and calloused and scarred. She's a plethora of feel. And feel he does.

Eric feels.

**Author's Note:**

> boiii this was just a huge vent imsorry   
> anyhoo this is also on mah Tumblr (@tomhiddlestonismyjesus) so feel free to check that out :)  
> this was trash I'm sorry I'll post better fics on my tumblr I sWEAR


End file.
